Cuddle Weather
by coffeeat221b
Summary: Life isn't very fond of John Watson. But Sherlock is.
1. The Bitter Mondays

There are some moments when life decides to throw the most horrible situations in John Watson's path. Today happens to be one of those days that just seems to get worse with every passing minute. As John shivers in the cold office at work, he decides that he hates Mondays, and nothing can convince him otherwise. He hugs himself, trying to retain as much body heat as possible. According to the scrawled words in his appointment book, his patient should've arrived fifteen minutes ago. But the roads are slathered in ice, bloody hunks of frozen snow, and black cabs jammed in slow-moving lines. He doesn't expect the traffic to clear any time soon.

"Bloody snow," he mutters, a shudder raking through his body. Desperate for warmth, he twists around and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. He tugs it on and yanks the zipper until his exposed neck is covered with the scratchy fabric. For the seventh time this morning, he wishes he had brought a thicker coat.

The sound of approaching footsteps fills his ears. He listens to the click of heels against the tiled floor, recognizing it to be Sarah's footsteps. Soon, they pause outside of his office, and a sharp rap on the door alerts him.

"Come in," John calls, straightening in his chair.

The doorknob twists open, and Sarah pokes her head through the crack. "Your patient cancelled her appointment," she says, a wince crossing her face. "She's rescheduling for the twelfth of January."

The doctor releases a sigh, slumping in his seat. "I'm not surprised," he says, flipping open his planner. The pencil scratches against the thin page as he remarks the date. "Didn't expect her to arrive on time in the first place."

Sarah coughs, a laugh tangled in her throat. "Go home, John," she says, her face relaxing in a small smile. "The traffic isn't going to get any better."

He glances up at her with a grateful look. "Thank you," he says, trying not to appear eager as he rises to his feet. He begins sliding his belongings into his bag. His face twists in a grimace. "They say that it'll snow tonight."

The brunette rubs her eye, shaking her head. "Be safe," is all she says before she eases the door shut, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

John pulls his phone out of his pocket. As he turns it on, it lights up with a glare that sears into his eyes. He ignores the texts infesting his inbox, opening up a blank message. His large fingers mash into the tiny keyboard as he writes to Sherlock, _Coming home early._ He hesitates before adding, _Make some tea. I'm freezing my arse off._ His thumb hits the send button.


	2. Icy Fingers

_In which Sherlock refuses to make tea and John returns from the great outdoors._

* * *

Sherlock does _not_ make the tea. It has always been John's duty to perform that task, and he doesn't see why he should make any exceptions. After all, sudden drops in temperature are very common in London. The detective has marked today as any other ordinary day. As his fingers balance another slide on the microscope, he is interrupted by the flat door screeching open. A victorious howl of the wind pierces Sherlock's ears, followed by a string of curses from his flatmate. The screams of the world barges in the flat, mixed with the loud honking of cars and the overlapping conversations of Londoners. The door slams shut once again, muffling the noises.

A tiny shiver disrupts the detective's motionless body. The wind has settled in the air and made itself at home, poisoning the warmth. _Idiotic John,_ he thinks, but his mind refuses to dwell on the topic for any longer. He directs his attention to the squirming flagella on the slide before him. In the background, he hears the loud, stumbling footsteps of the doctor. He thinks about the watery footprints he has probably left behind on the floor. If Mrs. Hudson would enter the room at this point, she would throw a fit before doing her best to clean up the mess. But she is away on a trip, far from the icy claws of the cold.

"Sherlock, did you make the tea?"

The warm air has done its best to battle away the cold wind. It settles around Sherlock, tucking his body in a cocoon of heat again. A content noise rises in his throat as he slips the slide out of the metal clutches of the microscope. A gentle clink croons in his ear when it knocks against the stage. His fingers set down the glass onto the counter with the upmost care. He selects another.

"Sherlock?"

The detective feels himself being snagged back into reality. Hot breath blasts his exposed neck. He turns to see John standing at his side, very close to him. He hums, a questioning tone ringing in the sound.

A sigh escapes the doctor's lips as he lifts a hand to rake through his greying hair. "Did you make tea?" he repeats.

Sherlock's thoughts trail to the missing cup of tea. He realizes a polite, appropriate reply would be, "I'm sorry, but I didn't make any tea." But Sherlock has no interest in following the social norms, so he doesn't bother to respond. He sticks his eye over the ocular lens, peering at the wriggling germs found in one of his flatmate's snot-slathered tissues. He wonders if he should inform John that his nose is infested with more bacteria than he realizes. But as he toys with the idea, he knows the doctor won't care to know. More importantly, Sherlock will be yelled at for fishing out rubbish from the bin. His lips press together to restrain the words from flying out.

John seems to realize he won't be receiving any answers because he turns away with a shake of his head. "Of course," he huffs. "What was I thinking?"

The words send a strange feeling balling up in the pit of the detective's stomach. He pretends not to listen to the doctor rummaging around in the cupboards, dragging out two mugs and the kettle. The scrape of glass against wood rings in his ears. John's shoes shuffle across the linoleum floor, but a sudden metallic crash drowns out his footsteps. _He dropped the kettle,_ his thoughts inform him. _Cold hands, obviously._ Will his friend object to having his hands warmed? Only one way to find out.


	3. Pepper His Hands with Kisses

Sherlock glances at the doctor, who is standing at the sink with his back towards him. He rises from his seat without disturbing the chair, approaching him with silent steps. His ears are filled with the gurgling of the water hitting the bottom metal. Soon, the tap squeaks in protest as the doctor turns it off. He turns and flinches, almost dropping the kettle again.

"_Cor_," John exclaims, taking a step backwards. His leg bangs against the lower cupboards. "Don't _scare_ me like that!"

Sherlock says nothing. He plasters an unblinking stare on him, playing possible reactions in his mind. For a second, he wonders if his idea is any good. He draws back a little, realizing that the doctor is tensing, perhaps even thinking about walking away. _No_, he thinks, _that won't do._ Before the shorter man can even flinch to move, Sherlock grabs his free hand, sandwiching it in between his own large ones. John jumps a little, and his eyes widen. Shoving a burst of confidence through his veins, Sherlock uses his long, slender fingers to trap John's. He rubs them in an attempt to send warmth flaring through the stiff muscles.

The doctor's jaw drops a little. "What . . ." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock ignores him, moving his face closer to their intertwined fingers. His lips part to release gentle puffs of hot breath, saturating his friend's skin with moisture. He feels his heart hammer against his chest, crushing his lungs and threatening to crack past his rib cage. Saliva forms in his mouth, and he swallows hard as heat flares in his cheeks. He forces himself to continue blowing, refusing to acknowledge the soft pink rising in his pallid cheeks. Once the hand tingles with warmth, he releases it and lets it drop back to John's side. He reaches out for the other one, only to find that it's occupied with the kettle. Snatching the metal object, he sets it onto the stove to boil. The high, raspy hum of the water echoes from the hollow belly.

The detective turns back and reaches out for the remaining hand, cradling it in his palm. It feels warm to the touch, but he decides to ignore that fact in favor of drawing it close to his face. As his breath ghosts over it, he is hit with the sudden urge to press his lips against it. His imagination floats around in his head, sketching out possible scenes. _What would it be like? _he wonders. To have John's worn skin brushing against the soft, pink flesh of his mouth? He can almost feel the callouses and scars, the small blemishes stained with stories that weave together the doctor's life. For a second, he allows himself to indulge of thoughts weighed down with sentiment. He wants to pepper John's knuckles with tiny kisses, to melt in the warmth of his fingers. He longs t-

"Sherlock?"

The thoughts melt from the younger man's mind. He blinks, realizing his body has fallen very still. John is staring up at his face, but Sherlock ignores him. He stares down at the smaller hand, the hand that is too close to Sherlock's pink lips. A delicate sliver of heated air separates them. He trembles at the prospect of closing the distance, the chance sitting right in front of him, ready fo -

His fingers release the hand without warning. He watches it fall back to John, and it hangs by his side, limp and warm from his breath. Reining in a mouthful of heat, he turns on his heel and ignores the questioning gaze of the doctor. The inquisitive stare follows him all the way back to the kitchen table, where he plops down in his seat and reclaims his position in front of the microscope. He peers at the slide and fiddles with the focus knob, but his senses remain open to the man a few feet away from him. How can he divert his attention back to science as if nothing happened? _Not when I was so damn close to kissing his hand,_ Sherlock thinks. A mental shudder rakes through his thoughts when he realizes he has almost lost control.

He is brought back to reality by the creaking floorboards. His ears listen to John's footsteps retreat from the kitchen. They fade deeper into the flat, leaving him with a head of boiling thoughts.


	4. The Wrath of the Closet

John is dozing off in his armchair when a loud clatter jerks him back into consciousness. He blinks a few times and pulls his arms back into a luxurious stretch, unaware of the detective running an appreciative eye over his body. His eyebrows lower in a frown as he sits up in his seat, ears straining for another noise. He is rewarded with a metallic groan echoing from the belly of the heater, as if it's eaten something that doesn't agree with its stomach.

"Funny," the doctor says before a violent rattling ensues. It grows louder, steady in its increase in volume and slamming into his eardrums. A wince crosses his face before an abrupt hiss slices through the air, causing him to flinch. "Is that even normal?" he says, raising his voice over loud moans.

Stretched out on the couch on his back, Sherlock rolls over onto his side without a word. He curls up into himself, the curve of his spine seeming to taunt John. _I can't be bothered to deal with idiots like you_, it sneers. The doctor shakes his head, shooting a weak glare at his flatmate before shuffling over to the heater. He slows down as he nears it, taking hesitant steps as though the machine is a frightened animal. A metallic scent stings his nostrils, causing his nose to wrinkle.

"Do you smell that?" John questions the detective, not expecting a response. He leans closer to the heater, only to jump in surprise when it belches before falling silent. His eyes narrow at it. Stretching out a hand, he lets his fingers hover above the slits in the machine. His eyebrows lower in a frown when he feels no heat pulsing from them. He tosses a glance towards the controls. The switches have remained untouched. He blinks as the realization slaps him in the face, leaving behind stinging cheeks and slumped shoulders.

"Oh, shit," the doctor swears, resisting the urge to kick the dead machine. The only reply he receives is the rustle of fabric as Sherlock shifts around in his position. John whirls around to face his friend, his jaw clenching. "Well?" he says. "Our heater just broke." He shakes his head. His feet drag against the carpet as he trudges back to his seat. He plops into his armchair, jolting a soft grunt from his mouth. "And on one of the coldest days too!"

Sherlock twists around to shoot him a look bristling with annoyance. "Are you finished stating the obvious?" he snaps. "Or will you be our announcer for the rest of the evening?"

John stares at his friend, a scoff flying from his mouth. "Really?" he says. "Our heater _broke_ and you're -" He slumps back in the soft cushions. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, hard enough for it to start throbbing in pain.

"Again, you're stating the obvious," the other male says, appearing unmoved by the fact that they have no heat.

The doctor ignores him, deciding he has better things to do than argue with his flatmate. "I'll be building a fire," he says, heaving himself up from his seat, "so we don't _freeze_ our balls off. You interested in joining me?" He only receives a huff from the lump on the sofa. "Fine," he snaps before storming off to find a starter log for the fireplace.

* * *

The boxes of starter logs decide to hide from John as he turns the flat upside down while rummaging around in the rooms for it. In the end, he finds one tucked away in the back of the storage closet, where Sherlock's abandoned science equipment rests. It's buried underneath a pile of heavy junk that he has to lug away, an exercise that leaves him panting. When he staggers onto his feet with the box in his arms, he bangs his head on a shelf and upsets a delicate balance of items. A flood of objects tumbles down upon him, the closet pouring its wrath upon him for disrupting its silence. How _dare_ he disturb the gentle weaving of spiderwebs? How _could_ he shift around its contents when they've remained still for months?

John cannot defend himself against this mighty attack. He drops the box of starter logs with a cry and buries his head in his arms, dropping down onto the floor. Buds of pain sprout in his skull, blossoming into full aches and sharp spikes drilling into his nerves. The dark walls surrounding him appear to sneer at his helpless form. After the last few items clatter to the floor, he hesitates before unfolding his limbs. But a fat duvet slips off of the shelf and lands on his head, draping over his face like a conquerer's flag_. I have conquered this man, _the closet seems to boast. He rips off the blanket and drops it onto the floor, where it lands in an undignified heap at his feet. A throb is building up in his forehead, the sign of a headache. Other than a deflated ego, he appears unharmed. Releasing a colorful string of profanity, he scoops up the logs and storms out of the closet.

The fireplace doesn't treat John any better. He is forced to kneel on the hard floor, the wooden boards digging into his aching knees. The starter logs sit into the jaws of the firebox, buried underneath other heavy chunks of wood. He strikes a match against side of the white box, the head bursting into a flame. Before he can light the wood, a sudden blast of cold breath blows out the small bit of fire.

"Hey!" John protests, jerking his head to see a frowning Sherlock kneeling next to him.

The man yanks the starter logs out of the firebox, dislodging the pile. "You're supposed to use one," he informs him, snapping off a piece of the wood and jamming it back underneath the other logs. "You must have hit your head harder than I thought."

"Shut up," the doctor mutters, heat flaring in his cheeks. He lights another match and holds it towards the fireplace. His eyes watch the flame crawl onto the wood and lick at it before sinking in, releasing a content crack. It's only when his attention leaves the spreading hue of orange that he realizes how close he is to the other male. Sherlock's knee is jammed against the side of his thigh. Their shoulders are pressed together as if they are puzzle pieces, formed to be locked into one. He can feel his warm breath stirring the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. An involuntary shiver spirals up his spine.

John clears his throat, the noise rattling in his throat. "I . . . uh." He nods towards the dead match and the box. "I'd better get rid of these," he mumbles, detaching himself from the detective's side and rising to his feet. His knees crack, and a dull ache blossoms in them. Ignoring the slight pain coursing through his joints, he hurries towards the trashcan in the kitchen. He hopes that his face isn't splashed with an embarrassing shade of pink.


	5. The Faintest Smile

In a fit of incurable boredom, Sherlock releases control of his body and lets his balance slip. With limp limbs unable to support his weight, he ends up plopping onto his side on the carpet. The rough fibers dig into his cheek as he stares at the squirming flames in the firebox. A loud crackle causes a few orange sparks to float in the air. His nose wrinkles when the familiar, thick scent of smoke reaches his senses. If he remains sprawled out on the floor for any longer, his nostrils will be clogged with the smell for the rest of the evening. His eyes slip shut as the heat stains his face, warming up his stiff muscles. He won't admit it, but the cold has been seeping into his body after the heat was drained from the air. He snuggles into the floor, allowing it to poke him hard in his bones. His lips part to release a lazy sigh that curls in the air.

The sound of approaching footsteps causes him to snap to attention. He sees the short legs drawing closer, the soft fabric fluttering with the older man's movements. His gaze trails up to John's face. The content look tenses on his facial muscles when he catches a mixture of amusement and fondness melting in his eyes.

"I saw that look," John says, a teasing tone nudging at his words. His hands are holding a plate of biscuits and a mug of tea. He shuffles closer before settling on the floor beside Sherlock, his movements slow and careful. "You _like_ the fire." He stretches out his legs, his bare toes flexing as his feet are propped in front of the twirling flames.

The detective chooses not to reply, tucking in his legs to give the blogger more room to sit. John sets down his snack. The glass meets the floor with a light thunk. It scrapes against the carpet as he pushes it closer to Sherlock's neck, saying, "This might keep you warm."

Sherlock accepts the offering without another word, tucking it underneath his chin. The heat from the mug nuzzles into his exposed skin. It leaves tingles running through his nerves. John releases a content sigh, plucking up a biscuit and snapping it in half.

"C'mon, Sherlock," he urges him, holding out the bit of food. "Eat something."

Sherlock remains still, a glare building up in his eyes. The biscuit is held closer to his face, bumping against his lips. With a growl building up in his throat, he snaps up the piece, the tip of his tongue grazing the fingers. His tastebuds are seared with the stabs of the sugar and the even sweeter taste of John, stained with a faint trace of wood and salt. He hears his friend's breath hitch. He manages to keep his composure, chewing on his tidbit of food. He swallows his mouthful and fights the urge to ask for more, telling his stomach that it can wait for a bit.

By now, John seems to have recovered from the surprise of having his fingers licked. His hand closes around a fat biscuit, and he sinks his teeth into it. The crunch of the hard food is accompanied by the crackle of the firewood. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Sherlock shifts in his position, beginning to feel a dull ache blossom in his bones from the hard floor. Unfortunately, the couch is too far away from the fire, and he feels too lazy to haul himself into the nearest armchair. His attention flickers to John, who stares into the fire and remains oblivious to the detective's thoughts. _He'll make a nice pillow, _Sherlock decides. He shifts over and plops his head into his lap without another thought. His lungs rein in a breath of the doctor's scent. His nose is filled with faint traces of wood, smoke, and cologne trapped in the fibers of his clothing. He settles in and tries to catalogue all the sensations washing over him as fast as he can. The softness of John's jumper, his thighs giving way underneath the weight of his heavy skull, the heat pounding through the air and seepi -

His thoughts freeze when a hand rests on top of his head. He tenses and waits for it to shove him from the lap. The sharp pangs of rejection have become familiar to him over the years, often dripping with the exclamations of "freak" and "useless machine." He braces himself for the hollow hole to rip open his chest once more. _It was nice while it lasted,_ he admits, his eyes slipping shut. He melts in the darkness behind his eyelids, hiding from John's face. He can't bear to look into his friend's eyes and see disgust pounding behind the clear, blue pools. But when he feels fingers weaving through his curls, a choking gasp rises in his throat. His mind stutters. This isn't the reaction he has prepared himself for. The movements are meant to be gentle and soothing, but a wince crosses Sherlock's face. Every touch seems to sear through his scalp and drill deep into his skull. They nip past the delicate tissue and pierce into his nest of thoughts. His muscles tense with every stroke. He wants to arch his back in pleasure. He longs to press closer to John while squirming away from him at the same time. He doesn't deserve such a man in his life. He _can't_ be allowed to fall in love with him.

Before Sherlock can stop it, a noise of pleasure breaks out from his mouth and betrays his emotions. He tenses and swallows hard against the tightening walls of his throat. But his stiff muscles begin to loosen when his ears are filled with a gentle chuckle. His eyes slide open, reluctant to be exposed to the open air. At first, he can see nothing but flashes of orange shadows dancing along the carpet. But soon, his vision is filled with John. His John. His face has relaxed, the wrinkles of old age fading into his skin. His lips are curled up in a smile - not the breathless, excited one after chasing a murderer. Not the one that stretches across his mouth so hard that it hurts his cheeks. Not the one that is bold and wide enough to leave the corners of his eyes crinkling. It's something more soft and tender, almost faint. It's a smile reserved for Sherlock and only Sherlock.

The detective's tight body begins to uncoil at the sight of clear fondness and affection written on his blogger's face. His shoulders slump as he lets down his guard, inch by inch. The light fingers in his hair coax him to relax until he yields to the hand and allows it to stroke him into oblivion.


	6. The Strangest Ideas

As evening drags into the dark folds of the night, the flat grows colder. Soon, the crackling flames do little to help keep the men warm. Sherlock begins trembling underneath John's gentle fingers. Quivers run through his body as he presses closer to him until his face is hidden in his stomach. The doctor blinks in surprise, concerning flashing across his eyes.

"I'll be back," he tells Sherlock, pushing him off of his lap with gentle hands. Rising onto his feet, he winces at the dull ache coursing through his joints. Hurrying towards their rooms, he rips their duvets from their beds. His arms hug the thick layers to his chest, a strange mixture of their scents filling his nose. He can detect the traces of Sherlock's posh shampoo and cologne, trapped in the material of the comforter. His chest tightens at the familiar smell. He returns to find a shivering Sherlock curled up in a tight ball, almost pressed against the screen of the fireplace.

John's eyes widen. "Sherlock?" he says, rushing towards him.

"I'm fine," the detective says, the lie slipping from his tongue.

John's face hardens into a stern look. "Liar," he says. An accusing tone stabs at the word.

Kneeling on the carpet, John wraps the blanket around Sherlock's shoulders. He nudges him even closer to the fire, hoping that the waves of heat will engulf him its embrace. But the tremors continue raking through his body. The cold manages to seep through the layers of warmth and slides along his skin with the glittering, predatory eyes of a reptile. The older man's teeth sink into his bottom lip as he runs through a list of his choices. The one that stands out the most is body heat. He hesitates before deciding to slide it at the bottom of his options. He searches for an alternative, but the icy air is beginning to numb his brain. His thoughts flicker to his early memories, desperate for methods to gain warmth. _What is the most comfortable way?_ he wonders, pecking at his head for ideas. _The fastest and most efficient? _After flipping through a few, faded scenes of his childhood, his attention fixes upon two words: blanket forts.

The doctor blinks a few times before a grin stretches across his face. Of course! _Why didn't I think of that before?_ He remembers stretching blankets across chairs with Harry and filling up the gaps with a sea of pillows. It had been their way of coping with the cold weather as young children after hours of romping outside in the snow. A shuddering breath from Sherlock interrupts his thoughts.

"What are you so happy about?" the younger man grumbles, twisting his head around to narrow his eyes at him.

His grin only widens. "I've got an idea," John blurts out, jumping up onto his feet. "I'll be back." Before the detective can shoot out a deduction, he darts off and crashes up the stairs towards his room. With his feet catching in the carpet, he almost loses his balance as he flies into his bedroom. His hand shoots out to grab the doorframe for support. A hum rises in his throat when he twists open the closet. His eyes fall upon the thick duvets lining the white, wooden shelves. He gathers them up in his arms, pausing to shove his feet into a pair of fluffy slippers. His toes flex in appreciation at the brush of the soft, inner fuzz.


	7. Blanket Forts

Wrapped in his fluffy duvet, Sherlock watches as John runs up and down the stairs, dragging down duvets and pillows. As John rushes into the kitchen, the younger man stares at the pile of warmth and soft comforters next to him. The screech of chairs against wood alerts him. He glances up as John hauls two of the dining table seats into the living room. Sherlock's eyes flicker back to the blankets, and something clicks in his head.

"No," Sherlock says.

John pauses in the middle of setting up the chairs by the fire. "What?" he says.

"It's childish and idiotic," he protests, sending a glare at the pillows. His foot lashes out to kick one away from him. It bounces onto the carpet, landing close to the fireplace.

The doctor frowns at him for a few seconds, trying to comprehend his words. Sherlock rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the chairs. "A blanket-and-pillow fort," he says in a clipped tone. "How _old_ are you?" His face twists in patronizing look, but the severity of it is lost by the trembling of his body.

John chokes out a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Oh, that," he says. He bends over to wrap another duvet around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Yes, _that_." A scowl unfolds on the detective's face, but he accepts the additional layer of warmth. His hands draw it tighter around his shivering body. He wraps it around his head until only a pair of glittering eyes and the hint of a nose can be seen. "I refuse to participate in such a ridiculous activity," he says, voice muffled as he retreats deeper into his cocoon of warmth.

"No one's asking you to," John says. "Besides, you probably wouldn't know what to do." He busies himself with draping the blankets over the tops of the chairs to form a roof. He can't help but sneak a glance over to his friend.

The glittering eyes have widened in surprise. They soon narrow at John before a faint voice trickles out from the thick layers. "Baiting me won't work."

The blond raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I guess you're not smart enough to build a fort," he says, a challenging tone rising in his voice.

A heavy silence smacks the flat. He sees a slight tremor in the cocoon before it stills. After a few seconds, it returns, increasing in strength until the entire body is trembling. It bristles in irritation before the blankets are flung off in a fury, and long limbs blast out into freedom. A furious detective explodes onto his feet to scoop up an armful of pillows.


	8. The Best Kind of Warmth

Fifteen minutes later, John is huddled in the corner of the fort, seeking refuge from his flatmate's heavy rant about the insecure structure of the heater. He has given up hopes of attempting to understand and settles for staring at the flickering flames.

"I don't understand why companies are hiring idiots," Sherlock seethes, his jaw clenched. His fingers grip the corners of his blanket, tugging at the fibers and rubbing it in agitation. "If they'd ju -"

"_Okay_, Sherlock!" John snaps, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence. His eyes widen in frustration before he shakes his head. Guilt flies in to nibble at the edges of his anger. He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders slumping in regret. "Sorry," he says. "I know you're cold."

A thick silence begins to coil in between the two men. John releases a sigh and rubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Despite their best efforts to stay warm, the flat's temperature plunges lower in the numbers as the evening drags on. The cold has seeped past his skin and settled in his bones, leaving a dull ache embedded inside his body. He can hear his body creaking and shivering as he hunches over. He draws his limbs closer to him in a tight ball, settling in the nest of pillows surrounding them on the floor. He releases a huff. A mouthful of clouds float out of his throat. He blinks at the sight. He watches his exhalation melt into the air before he releases another. _God_, he thinks. _We're going to freeze to death_. His gaze swings over to Sherlock, and his lips twitch in a smile. The detective is releasing a steady stream of breath vapor, an eyebrow raised at the sight. It soon drops when his nose wrinkles in delicate distaste. John's mouth stretches into an irrepressible smile, a strangled laugh wriggling out of his throat.

"You look like a dragon," the doctor says, eyes shining with mirth.

Sherlock shoots a frown in his direction. "Don't be silly, John," he says with a reprimanding tone.

His shoulders lift up in a shrug as he stretches out onto his side. "Looks like smoke to me," he says before curling up into a tight ball.

The younger man rolls his eyes. "You're merely seeing the condensed, water vapor droplets in my breath," he sniffs, his words jamming into each other as he scrambles to explain the world of science to the doctor. "It's a simple process that you should be able to understand."

John remains quiet for a few seconds, his eyes traveling back to the flickering flames. Sometimes, he has to pause and wonder if Sherlock does have an imagination shoved in that massive head of his. The facts and knowledge stored in his mind are impressive, but what use are they if he can't use them to enjoy life? On some days, he stops to think about the detective's past life, his thoughts stretching all the way back to his mysterious childhood. _What was Sherlock like as a child?_ he often asks himself. Mycroft sometimes lets tiny tidbits of memories slip free, and he hears the occasional confirmation from Sherlock. But still, he knows very little.

He wriggles himself free from his thoughts and melts back into reality. "Way to ruin the fun," he tells Sherlock, a teasing tone embedded in his words. His gaze isn't resting upon him, but he is certain that the detective appears annoyed.

"It's science," his flatmate snorts, irritation pricking in his voice.

John is certain he can detect a faint trace of fondness, hidden underneath the layer of disdain. A soft sigh fills his ears, quivering near the end. He tosses a glance at Sherlock in time to see him tug the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His eyes flicker to the watch embracing his wrist. The slender hands point at the elegant numbers, telling him it is almost past nine. His teeth capture his bottom lip and nibble at the soft flesh. If the flat already feels this cold, he can't imagine what the rest of the night will feel like.

An idea pokes John in the head and captures his attention. He glances towards it, a questioning look flashing across his face. _Body heat_, it hisses. He ducks away from it.

_No_, the doctor thinks. There has to be another way.

The idea wriggles into his ear and slams into his eardrum. _Body heat!_ it screams.

_Look at Sherlock, you idiot_, his mind snaps, jerking his attention towards his flatmate. The involuntary tremors are beginning to shake his body once more. _I'm certain that the embarrassment is worth it_.

He cringes as guilt coils around his intestines and twists them. It's a heavy weight in his stomach, threatening to rip past the flesh and sprawl out from his skin. He turns to his thoughts for help, but they're all nudging him in the same direction. _Oi! _they cry, shaking their fists and turning his face towards his shivering flatmate. _To Sherlock, soldier!_

Something flares in his chest, and his fingers curl into a loose fist. He releases a shaky breath, watching it recoil at the touch of the air. His insides flare with a sudden warmth, flaming tendrils licking at them. A sickening fondness seeps from the inner walls of his abdomen. The longer his eyes rest upon Sherlock, the thicker it grows. His soft gaze traces the plush lips, running along the elegant curves of the sharp cheekbones begging for attention. An irrepressible heat builds up in his cheeks until he is forced to drop his stare. His finger traces the soft cover of one of the pillows underneath him. The cool fabric does little to distract him from the attractive detective, but it at least douses out some of the flames in his face.

_I'll starve it out_, the doctor suddenly decides. Yes - starving out the idea. Letting the long stretches of time strip it of its strength until nothing but a brittle skeleton remains. He is certain that Sherlock will be able to give off enough body heat to survive, and -

What is he thinking? The sheer will of the detective is useless against the raging, biting chills of the cruel weather. _Idiot_, he reprimands himself. _You're such an idiot._ His teeth scrape against his bottom lip before he dumps his pride and gives into the doctorly side of him. "Sod it all," he says, shoving his blanket off of his body. Ignoring the detective's curious look, he grabs the hem of his jumper and yanks it off. His ears catch a surprised noise as he tugs the heavy sweater over his head. It drops into his lap. His hands reach out towards Sherlock and shove the blanket from his body.

Sherlock doesn't miss a beat. His slender fingers pluck at the small buttons of his shirt, worming them free from the tiny holes. Squirming out of his button up, he lets it fall from his shoulders and onto the sea of pillows.

"Lie down," John instructs him.

The air is filled with the rustling of fabric before both men settle on their sides, facing each other. A strip of space remains in between them, a delicate, quivering handful of inches. An awkward, tense silence ensues as the two remain uncertain of the next step. John gather a mouthful of saliva and swallows hard. His Adam's apple bobs, trying to ignore the fact that his flatmate is topless. His chest is beginning to tighten, as well as a certain part of him he doesn't want to think about. _Maybe this wasn't the greatest idea_, he thinks. But the thought vanishes from his head when Sherlock shifts forward and crosses the narrow distance in between them. Warmth explodes in his body as the taller, leaner form presses against him. He wraps his arms around John, pulling him close against his chest. The doctor can feel the hesitancy in the detective's movements. He pauses before embracing him as well, burrowing his face in the long, elegant neck. He inhales the soft scent, basking in the fading smell of his shampoo and a hint of his cologne. Releasing a faint sound of pleasure, he lets his nose slide down until it rests on the solid collarbone.

The body tenses underneath his ministrations, the muscles growing taut. John freezes, and flames of shame sweep over his cheeks.

"Sorry," the ex-soldier murmurs, wincing as his words flutter against the pallid skin. He moves to pull back.

A large hand flies up and cradles the back of his head. John falls still, allowing the gentle fingers to guide him back towards the neck. The Adam's apple bobs, and he is pushed closer until his face is pressed against the collarbone once more. John releases a gentle sigh, and the detective relaxes until he has melted in the doctor's arms. He snuggles closer to the older man and jams a leg in between his. His nose buries in the golden, short hair, tracing the scalp and leaving tingles in its wake. John's ears are filled with a rough inhalation before a content noise rumbles from the pale throat. The vibrations of the vocal cords ripple against the ex-soldier's face and leave an shy splash of pink spreading across his cheeks.

John lets his eyes slip shut. "Feels nice?" he asks, soaking in the darkness behind his eyelids.

A gentle hum rises in the quiet flat before strong arms pull him closer.

"Yeah?" John says. A light chuckle escapes his mouth and floats in the air. "You're welcome, you bloody git." He hears a huff before a pair of lips brush against his temple, slow and hesitant. He remains motionless in the embrace, allowing the soft flesh to remain on his skin. After a few seconds, it leaves with a puff of warm breath, a silent promise of more tender moments like this to come.

The detective and his doctor soak in each other's warmth, trying to ignore the unnatural heat pooling in both of their stomachs.


End file.
